Hostages to Fortune
by Randomabiling
Summary: It is 1938 and once again the world is on the precipice of war. How will the inhabitants of Downton Abbey fair? Will Downton itself be able to weather this storm? All upstairs characters are featured with lots of focus as Sybbie, George and Marigold as they come of age in a cloud of war. Special thanks to ohtobealady for my fabulous cover image!
1. Chapter 1

_March 1938_

 _"After all, my wife and I have given nine hostages to fortune. Our children and your children are more important than anything else in the world. The kind of America that they and their children will inherit is of grave concern to us all." -Radio address by Joseph P Kennedy endorsing Roosevelt's third term, October 1940._

 _"We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender."-Winston Churchill, June 1940_

Sybbie gathered her books quickly, stacking them atop one another and cinching the leather strap tightly around the worn bindings. Pushing away from her desk, she rushed by the rest of the girls filing out of the classroom. The laughing, crystalline voices of her friends called out to her in her hurry and Sybbie twirled around, the skirt of her uniform billowing at the pleats. Waving to the girls, she continued to race through the hall, only to stutter to a slower gate and straighten her posture as she passed Headmistress Stone. The older woman turned her severe eyes on Sybbie as she walked by.

"You would not be running through the halls, Ms Branson? Surely that was not the sound of your feet clomping about." Mistress Stone peered over her wiry framed glasses, her mouth puckered distatestfully.

"No ma'am." Sybbie answered, her chin tucked into her chest and the heat rising in her face.

"Hmph…" The woman answered before resuming her progress down the corridor.

Sybbie ducked through the doorway, bursting out of the building and charging down the stairs. Once at the bottom, she looked up, her eyes gazing up the expansive limestone ashlars of the building. The octagonal turrets towered above her, climbing toward the blue sky and Sybbie exhaled, taking the moment to appreciate that her time at St Peter's* was coming to an end. Her classmates meandered out of the school in a haze of chatter, their combined conversations a harmony of gossip, confidences and trifles.

The air, unseasonably warm for March, stagnated around the wool of her collar and she unbuttoned her coat, feeling only marginal relief. The first of the crocuses reached colorfully from the dull patches of hardened dirt they were buried under and birds sang from their perches on bare trees. The bells of St Peter's chapel chimed out the tune of an ancient hymn and Sybbie looked to the steeple, the scrolling numbers of the clock telling her she would be late. Dashing away, the stiff soles of her shoes clattered along the cobblestone.

Her path was a familiar one, one she could navigate without thought, passing the usual sights. South Church. Mr. Brewster's Confectionary. The Castle and Swan Inn. Old Mr. Hill, who had been selling newspapers outside the York Post Office since she'd entered primary school frowned at her running silhouette.

The Italianate-styled Royal York Hospital loomed ahead and Sybbie slowed her steps as she approached. A group of staff congregated outside along the high stone wall encircling the entrance and they smiled at her as she went by.

"Good day, Miss Sybbie," Dr Charles, chief of surgery, greeted her.

"Hello," Sybbie sang, nodding at the the others before hurrying into the hospital.

Sybbie traversed the halls, discreetly peeking into doorways as she walked by. The hospital had always held special interest for her, its chemical smells and starkly appointed rooms. The building whispered of science and progress and the answers to age old riddles, just waiting to be discovered.

This place was part of her, like some element in her blood. It made her feel close to her mother somehow, thought she'd never worked within these halls. And then there was Granny. Granny who had, who _did,_ work here so dedicatedly. Granny, who Sybbie had been meeting in her office after school three days a week since she'd begun at St Peter's ten years prior.

As she rounded the corner, Sybbie heard the gentle inflections of her grandmother's voice drifting out of her office. It seemed strange but Sybbie was always filled with a sense of pride when seeing Granny at the hospital. Respected and highly regarded, Granny was terribly popular with the doctors and directors and her sweet facade and even temperament helped smooth many egos.

"Hello, darling!" Granny called out, looking up from her work as Sybbie crossed the threshold. "Is it that time already?"

"Yes, Granny. I am dragging you away." Sybbie declared, smoothing back a lock of hair that had come loose of its barret and was swaying into her eyes.

"Very well. Dr. Evans, I shall be here tomorrow to finalize the last of the fundraising plans." Cora told the young man who had stood at Sybbie's entrance.

Sybbie threw a shy smile in his direction before she turned serious, addressing her grandmother. "But Granny, you never come to the hospital on Fridays. You musn't over-tax yourself."

"Hmmm," Cora replied distractedly as she pushed back from her desk and put on her coat. She came around and met Sybbie by the door, looping her arm through her granddaughter's.

"I think dear Donk has been influencing you too much." Cora cooed as the two women strode through the halls of the hospital.

"He just worries. He thinks you should slow down." Sybbie said.

"Are you calling me old, dear?" Cora admonished.

Sybbie tossed her head in laughter. "No!"

"Good! Because we have a dress fitting we are going to be late for if we don't hurry." As if to prove her point, Cora pulled her along the corridors of the hospital quickly and down to the waiting car.

"Ugh, Granny! Really, do I have to?" Sybbie complained as she crouched into the back seat, scooting along the leather interior.

Cora settled into her spot, neatly arranging her coat around her slight frame, placing her clutch delicately in her lap. She moved with a fluidity that disguised her age, a grace that Sybbie wanted to emulate, despite her natural reaction to rebel against such constraints.

The motor stuttered to life with Bennet's turn of the key and the car lurched forward, gaining speed as he eased them onto the road. Sybbie unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of the bulky garment, the air in the back of the car stale and suffocating.

"Sybbie, dear, you know it means a great deal to your grandfather." Cora responded.

"It just seems silly. Afterall, I am the daughter of an Irish car salesman. What am I doing being presented at court like some grand laddy-da!" Sybbie sulked, picking at a thread in the hem of her sweater.

"You are also the granddaughter of the Earl of Grantham. His first." Cora said, covering Sybbie's hand with her own. "Besides, who knows how long the tradition will continue, with things the way they are."

"Granny…" Sybbie whined feebly, knowing her protest would end up getting her nowhere.

"I'm sorry darling, I fought on your father's side for your schooling. I won't fight to get you out of this." Cora said. "And selfishly I'm thrilled I get to present another of my girls!"

"Oh Granny, there's a monarchist hiding under all of that modern Americanism!" Sybbie quipped.

Cora raised her eyebrows and dropped her voice. "It will be our secret."

In spite of herself, Sybbie laughed, leaning toward Cora so that their shoulders touched. She hadn't wanted to be presented, a 'coming out' seeming archaic and ridiculous in 1938. But ever since she was young, there was a soft spot deep within her for her grandfather. Just as he would give her any heart's desire so she found she couldn't deny him either. And knowing how much joy her grandmother was getting from the ordeal sealed Sybbie's fate. Her father, whom she had counted on to fight just as hard as she initially did, turned out to be disappointingly conciliatory. As he told her quietly after dinner only a few evenings ago, sometimes we allow the people we love to have their way over our own.

Though she would never admit it outloud, wouldn't attest to it if questioned, she did enjoy some of the fussing Granny did over her as they picked out fabrics and patterns. The whole circus made bearable by the way her dress made her feel as beautiful as the mother she had never met.

"You must be getting very excited for the end of term," Cora's voice cut through Sybbie's distracted musing.

"Granny," Sybbie shifted in her sheet, rounding so that she could see Cora more fully. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Cora's eyes glimmered. "I love secrets!"

Sybbie sighed affectionately. "Granny, it is a serious one."

Cora's features dropped and she grasped Sybbie's hands. "It isn't a terrible one, is it?"

"No, no!" Sybbie assured. "But it may be hard for some people to hear."

Sybbie unstrapped her books from one another, carefully opening up her Linguistics primer, the packet of papers she had tucked in there still folded. She placed her palm on them, already knowing their words by heart. Just thinking of what she had read only hours before, she felt the same drop in her belly, the delicious, dizzying flopping that had occurred. She was excited and nervous and her hand shook as she took them from their hiding place. In place of words, she gave Cora the top sheet and watched as Cora looked it over, her brows threading together over the slope of her nose before they shot straight up. Her grandmother gasped and covered her mouth and Sybbie couldn't help the broad smile that stretched across her face.

"Sybbie," Cora whispered. "Is this what I think it is?"

"If you think that it is an acceptance letter to university, than yes!" Sybbie squealed.

"Oh my!" Cora placed her hand on her chest and shook her head. "But how? When?"

"Mrs Poole helped me fill out the application and she sent it. And they sent this back to her just today." Sybbie explained.

Cora looked back at the paper in her hands, reading the words. "Bedford Women's College, London."*

Sybbie nodded. "You'll help me Granny, won't you? When it comes to it, you'll fight my corner?"

Sybbie watched her grandmother hopefully, took in the way Cora's eyes widened at her words, the way tears pooled in their depths. When Cora's chin wrinkled, her grandmother trying to repress the quiver building under her skin, the ballooning excitement pressing against Sybbie's breastbone began to deflate. Cora reached out and Sybbie let herself be pulled into her tight embrace.

"Of course I will, darling." Cora promised, her voice cracking. "Of course I will."

* * *

Robert strode into the Great Hall, little Tut galloping at his ankles, nipping at his loafers playfully. Bending down, he gave the pup a good rubdown, the golden's tail wagging excitedly at the attention. Robert looked up at the sound of heels clapping the marble and saw Thomas entering from the library.

"Good afternoon, my lord." Barrow stopped his progress at noticing Robert.

"Hello Barrow," Robert said, shrugging out from his overcoat and handing it to Thomas along with his hat. "Do you know where her Ladyship is?"

"In the library my lord." Thomas replied calling to Tut as he exited the hall.

Nodding, Robert concentrated his steps in that direction, aware of the scraping of Tut's nails as he scurried after Thomas. He inhaled deeply, the walk around the grounds energizing him and clearing his head. From a distance he had seen the car twisting along the drive bringing Cora home. He had been angry the night before, her announcement that she would be at the hospital again coming on the back of a stressful day of bookkeeping with Mary and Tom. His temper getting the best of him, he had turned his back to her in bed, laying down in the silence and sharpness left by his words.

When he woke that morning, she had already left.

Robert entered the library, searching the room for Cora and finding her on the window seat, a letter resting limply on her lap as she stared out the glass. He couldn't place her expression but her immersion in her own thoughts, her ignorance of his entrance, put him on edge.

"Cora," Robert said softly and she shook herself and tossed a faint smile in his direction though her eyes remained troubled.

He felt a stir of guilt, hoping his ire the night before wasn't the cause of her upset but then she held the piece of paper out to him. Taking it he scanned its content, unsure of what had piqued her. It looked like any other letter she'd received, signed by someone whose face he couldn't quite conjure up

Sensing his dimness, Cora sighed. "It is from my cousin Elise. Remember, we visited with her when we were in Vienna?"

"Oh yes!" Robert said with a certainty that remained partially shaky. "It isn't bad news, I hope."

"No…" Cora replied, her head tilting to the side. "The usual talk of her children. She'll be a great-grandmother soon."

"Well, that is something!" Robert said before sitting down beside her.

"Yes," Cora's voice drifted as she took the letter back from his hands. "And Austria has been annexed by Germany."

"Ahh…it was voted on recently." Robert explained. "But it isn't anything to trouble yourself over."

"I don't know Robert. I cannot seem to forget poor Michael Gregson and his fate." Cora said.

"My dear," Robert placed his hand on Cora's knee. "What happened to him was tragic, but unfortunately not uncommon. A foreign man in a pub can sometimes be the victim of violence."

Cora met Robert's eyes, searching for something there that would tell her he was shielding her from his true thoughts but he seemed unphased. And yet, she couldn't let go of the knots her stomach twisted into when she read the newspapers. It felt as though they were perched on the brink of something.

"The world is quite volatile at the moment." Cora said quietly.

"Oh not anymore than it always is, darling." Robert soothed. "Why, when I was at the club last week Lord Dormer was speaking about how his oldest granddaughter is in Bavaria as we speak for finishing school.* From her letters it seems she's having the time of her life. She even dined with Hitler himself."

"Really?" Cora leaned back, incredulous.

Robert nodded. "Now why don't you tell me about your preparations for Sybbie's presentation? May will be here before we know it."

Cora exhaled heavily, a momentary squint to her eyes that Robert thought peculiar, as though she had more to say, but she swallowed and forced a smile upon her face.

"Everything is fairly set. Sybbie had her last fitting yesterday, and Robert she looks so beautiful!" Cora gushed.

"I do not doubt it," Robert responded, pleased at the way Cora's eyes lost the greyness clouding them and instead twinkled with delight.

"She really is a dear for going along with it. As is Tom. You know it isn't something he believes in." Cora said.

Robert shrugged. "He has a great influence on her, obviously. But we cannot let her forget that she is also a Crawley."

Cora rolled her eyes. "How could she? When you remind her so often."

Robert grinned, slapping his knees and standing. "It is my duty as her grandfather."

Cora smirked up at him. Robert looked down at her, the grin fading from his lips.

"Between the hospital business and the preparations for Sybbie's ball, you've been running hither and thither. Why don't you come up and rest before lunch?" Robert held his hand out to Cora, wagging his fingers for her to take it.

When Cora hesitated, Robert shook his head.

"I know what is on the verge of your tongue and I will not take no for an answer," Robert instructed firmly.

Closing her eyes in defeat, Cora relented, taking his grasp and Robert pulled her up.

"I suppose a short nap won't hurt," Cora said as they walked hand in hand from the library.

"No, it will not." Robert said, placing a grazing kiss on her cheek before they both entered the great hall.

* * *

 _April 1938_

Tom rested his hand on the cold metal of the knob, trying to remember the comforting words that kept filling his head all evening. He placed a hand on the decorated frame bordering the door, listening for any signs of distress behind the walls but there was only quiet. He couldn't help but think of her face, her smooth, joyful face as she had delivered the news over dinner. His little girl was going to university. Never had he experienced a moment like the one downstairs, Sybbie's voice clear and honeyed. A shiver of his flesh had sent every hair on end, from his arms to his scalp. His stomach had clenched, his eyes had stung. He had wanted to laugh and shout and scoop her up into his arms and dance her around. The baby he had cradled not so long ago, with eyes the color of her mother's was growing into a woman.

Tom looked up to the ceiling, blinking. He pictured Sybil, how she had jumped up and down when Gwen had gotten that secretary job. What a jig she must be doing now!

 _Our girl, Sybil! Our girl!_

Folding his fingers, Tom rapped his knuckles against the door, a shallow sound vibrating through the wood. Sybbie's muffled voice reached him, the dull _Come in,_ twisting at his gut. Tom opened the door carefully, glancing around before stepping in. Sybbie had her back to him, curled on top of her bed, still in her dinner dress. As he closed the door behind him, she leaned back, peaking in his direction before turning once more.

"Sybbie." All of the words Tom had plotted out were lost to him, all his energy channeled into the syllables of her name. To see her narrow shoulders rise and fall with her breathing, her disappointment pushed out on every exhalation, was a pain as tangible as any he had felt.

"How could he not be proud of me, Dad?" Sybbie asked, still facing away from him.

"Oh darlin'," Tom replied, sitting on her bed and rubbing her arm. "Don't think that he isn't."

Sybbie sat up and slid back against the padded headboard. "It's hard to think anything else when all he did was grumble. He is more concerned about the reputation of the family than my education!"

"Donk loves you very, very much." Tom insisted, taking a strand of her hair and tugging on it gently. "This is just something that will take him getting used to."

Sybbie scrunched up her mouth. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"You are right, my dear. I do."

Tom saw Sybbie's eyes dart to the door before his own followed. Robert stood just over the threshold in his bathrobe, his hands held behind his back. Bringing his arms forward, he motioned at the center of the room.

"May I?" Robert asked.

"Yes," Sybbie answered quietly. "Did Granny tell you to come?"

Robert cleared his throat. "Well, it seems the dividing door has been locked. From her side. So perhaps not in actual words…".

Tom coughed in order to disguise the laugh he'd let loose but Sybbie remained passive, crossing her arms and meeting Robert's eyes. "I don't think you were fair, Donk."

Robert struggled for his words, his mouth opening and shutting around the idea of a few before sighing and letting his shoulders sag.

"All that I can say is that I am sorry. I never meant to upset you; it just took me by surprise. I didn't realize you were interested in attending university." Robert explained, holding up his hands.

Sybbie let her arms drop, softening. "I am, Donk. I want to be important one day."

"You already are." Robert said, his voice straining.

Sybbie rolled her eyes. "I mean, I want to contribute to the world."

Robert let out the breath he was holding, his eyes falling to the floor. "I couldn't be more proud of you, my darling girl. Truly."

Tom turned to Sybbie, her face glowing. He took her hand. "You are going to do great things."

 _*St. Peter's is a real primary and secondary school in York. It started out as just a boys school and then became co0ed. For the purpose of this story, it is an all girls school._

 _*Apparently, lots of aristocratic girls were sent to Germany in the mid to late 30's for finishing school, Bavaria being the most popular. Germany at the time was a lot like England. It was clean, the weather was better, as was the food. And many of the young women were infatuated with all the young men in uniform. They were also embraced by Hitler and his cronies as well as the remaining German aristocrats, whom their families still had ties. It was only once Germany invaded Poland and war seemed inevitable that they were brought back by their families._

 _*Bedford Women's College is an actual college in London that is now co-ed but started as one of the first women's universities in England._


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to review and follow this story! It really is so motivating to know your thoughts. I had hoped to include the presentation in this chapter, but it was turning into a beast so I had to break it up. Next time for sure!**

 _Chapter 2- May 1938_

George pressed his face near the glass as the car puttered through the crowded London streets. He always felt a surge of anticipation when coming to the city, some strange discomfort in his own skin, some unnamed longing. He didn't belong here, where the streets thrummed with energy like an electric live wire.

The car slowed to a rocking stop in front of the familiar expanse of Grantham House and he felt the weight of inevitability settle more firmly around him. There was a cold stiffening in his back as he thought how one day, all of it would be his. And unlike his friends at Eton, he felt no pride in this, no rightness to it. There was no comfortable distance from the responsibility awaiting him. No, his fate was within his touching, so clearly evident in the lines of his grandfather's face, the grey of his hair. The nearness of it made him claustrophobic. George would be the Earl of Grantham before he'd ever experienced anything else of the world.

He felt just as alien on his lonely ancestral estate as he did in the vibrant streets of London.

Forcing a smile upon his face and adjusting his cap, George exited the car and pulled himself up the stairs, a tiredness unequal to his youth slowing his ascent. Thomas appeared within the doorway and then passed through, his impassive face crinkling with a faint upturn of his lips.

"Master George," Thomas greeted, nodding his head.

"Hello Barrow!" George called out, waving up at the familiar butler.

He quickly dropped his arm and raised his chest as his grandfather exited the house.

"I thought I heard the car!" Robert said happily, taking his grandson's hand firmly in his own.

"Grandpapa," George stated, causing his grandfather to wince as though struck.

Robert shook his head. "I was petulant when Sybbie taught you to call me Donk all those years ago, and now I've received my wish."

George ducked his head, heat rising up his neck. "Oh Grandpapa, I am almost seventeen years old."

"Sybbie still calls me Donk…" Robert pointed out as the two walked into the house.

"Sybbie is a girl. It's different." George explained.

A platoon of footmen entered the salon and both George and Robert stopped to witness their work. The drinks cart from the library was rolled out, now burdened with crystal bowls filled with flowers. Fragile rosebuds and sturdy white violets patterned the perfect arrangements. The heels of Cora's shoes clicked against the floor as she seemed to spring from one spot to the other, directing the placement of each bouquet. Some of the melancholy lifted from George's shoulders, the sound of his grandmother's distinct voice drifting across the room. George glanced at Robert, but his grandfather did not return his look. His eyes followed Cora as she moved about.

"I hope my flowers arrived in time," George said quietly.

Robert pointed his chin toward the Louis XIV end table just by the foyer. "Granny made sure they were put in a place of honor. Right near mine. Sybbie will be standing there in the receiving line."

George gestured toward the men in livery. "Where did they all come from?"

"Oh some agency Granny employed for the ball. They have an agency for everything these days. Or so it seems." Robert replied as the hired footmen fought from tripping over one another, unfamiliar with the layout of the foyer.

"George!" Cora's voice stole his attention and George turned to see her advancing toward him with a smile as wide as her face.

"Hello Granny," George stepped into her embrace, closing his eyes for a moment and enjoying the warmth he always found there.

"Well, either I am shrinking or you have grown a foot since Christmas!" Cora exclaimed and George was surprised to indeed be staring her in the eye as she held him at arm's length.

"I do not think you are shrinking, my dear." Robert chuckled coming to Cora's side.

Cora looped her arm through George's and steered him toward the staircase. "I've put you in the Crimson Room. I hope that is alright."

"Of course it is, Granny," George said. "I leave it to your expertise."

"Your mother wrote you I take it? To let you know she would be arriving later?" Robert asked George as he trailed behind them up the stairs.

George looked over his shoulder at his grandfather. "She did. I am excited to hear how the unveiling went."

"You should really see the new showroom when you have a chance, dear. It is quite impressive," Cora told George.

George cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes I'm sure it is."

George could feel the gentle assessment of Cora's eyes on his profile but he did not return her gaze. She squeezed his arm, a touch that lingered. George worried that he wore his thoughts as easily as his overcoat, but then, no one ever quite looked at him the way granny did, except perhaps Sybbie. The two of them with their easy smiles but eyes that saw through him, looking for the cause of the unhappiness they sensed. His mother certainly never looked further than the surface of his face and why would she? Downton ran in her veins like a compound of her blood. She would never understand his reticence.

The new showroom had been talked about for months in Mary's letters to him, how Henry and Uncle Tom's business was expanding quicker than they could keep up. They were doing astonishingly well and George was excited for them, but their success was a bittersweet pill, provoking the dissent spreading through him. One day little Edward would have the chance to take it over. That is, if he wished. Nothing bound the possibilities for his half-brother and though cars weren't what George wanted for himself, he would have liked the choice. Even dear Sybbie was going to university, no doubt to do something extraordinary.

And George, he would spend his life in Yorkshire, taking his rightful place in a long line of Crawley men as Downton took over his life, little bit by little bit. It seemed ridiculously unfair that in 1938, George could not master his own destiny.

* * *

Mary took another small bite of her dinner, barely listening to the conversation at the other end of the table. Henry and Tom were retelling the glories of the grand opening to Robert, who was truly disappointed that he had missed it. She would have commented on his increasing fascination with cars, how his enthusiasm was childlike, if she weren't so puzzled by George. Picking up her glass and feigning interest at its contents, she lifted her eyes toward her son. He was using his fork to nudge a piece of meat around his plate, a half-hearted energy fueling his actions.

It hadn't escaped her notice that Cora was also spending most of the dinner paying particular attention to George, and Mary's immediate instinct had been to bristle with annoyance. It was a feeling that only abated slightly once she saw for herself the way he was pre-occupied and quiet. His behavior had grown increasingly odd since her arrival the night before, his natural shyness taking on a more deliberate quality, his silences more purposeful. And her inability to decipher his mood made her prickly, ready to snip at the first person who crossed her. That he should feel uncomfortable coming to her with a problem left Mary irritable and restless.

"Mrs Kennedy paid a call during tea," Cora interjected and Mary slid her attention to her mother. "Her daughters are being presented too. They'll be attending your ball." Cora smiled at Sybbie before taking a sip of her wine.

"Who is she?" Tom inquired.

"The new American ambassador's wife. He is quite the favorite of Roosevelt's. Some say he's being groomed for President." Robert said.

"I didn't realize American girls could be presented at court." George said, his first real words since dinner had started.

"Well, usually they aren't welcome." Mary said, folding her hands in her lap. "Of course, Granny was presented. But after all the money she paid to marry Donk, I'm sure it only seemed right."

"Mary!" Henry hissed at her side.

There was quiet at the table and Mary's spine straightened, her eyes ahead as she glanced around her. Everyone's face registered the effect her words had. Edith looked especially riled, her mouth so distorted by shock it would be comical in another setting. Mary wouldn't look in her father's direction. Her family blinked at her dumbly, all except Cora, whose stare bored into her plate. Her silence, her refusal to scold her, only goaded Mary on.

"I do think Mrs Kennedy and her daughters will be more welcome than Mama was. Since they'll no doubt be leaving at some point." Mary concluded, placing her napkin near her plate.

"That is enough," Robert's voice was low, his words cold in their precision, and the controlled anger left everyone breathlessly silent. "You will apologize."

Without looking to Cora, Mary said, "I am sorry if you are offended. Now I'll say goodnight."

Mary stood and walked quickly from the dining room, her hollow footsteps echoing in the hall, followed by the sound of another's. She knew he would follow her, knew his hand was close before he even touched her.

"That was mean business in there," Henry declared as his hand fell on her upper arm, turning her around.

Mary sighed. "Oh, it just came out. Why must everyone be so sensitive?"

Henry stepped back and frowned. "Mary, you insulted your mother for no reason!"

"Oh forget about her. There is something going on with George." Mary replied. "Something that she knows about and they are keeping it from me."

Henry shook his head. "If there is, you'll win no favor with him by being rude to his grandmother."

" _I_ am his mother!" Mary stated, tossing her hands at her side in agitation.

Henry's features softened. "I know. As does George. And he loves you but he's maturing, becoming his own man. He might feel awkward coming to you with certain things."

"And his Granny is better?" Mary huffed with incredulity.

Henry draped his arm around Mary's shoulders, pressing her close. "I seem to remember a young woman who had a special simpatico with her own grandmother."

Her anger gave way to the usual warm tendrils of love she felt whenever Violet was mentioned, to be quickly followed by the pinch at her heart. The absence of her grandmother was still something she felt deep within her bones. No one had ever really understood her like Violet. Only Henry came close to filling the space she had left with her passing, but his was mostly a blind acceptance, borne of devotion rather than Violet's ability to see through her posturing.

As Mary continued up the stairs, Henry at her side, she released a perturbed breath. With her hostility snuffed out, her bitter words replayed in her mind. Looking down the hall and seeing her mother's bedroom door guilt began to take hold of her. The words of an apology formed in her mind, but with her mother still downstairs Mary doubted she would ever say them out loud. By the time Cora came up for bed, the impulse would have passed.

* * *

Cora rubbed lotion into her palms, staring across the room intently, though she was not really looking at anything in particular. In fact, her unfocused gaze only served to increase the grittiness her tired eyes had begun to feel downstairs, until the discomfort broke through her torpor and she shook her head, blinking rapidly. Baxter came into her view, stooping and picking up her discarded stockings, folding her dress over her arm. Her mouth curled upward as she looked down, placing her wedding ring back on her finger. Though the housekeeper may be Mrs Molesley and was addressed as such, she would always remain Baxter in the Cora's thoughts.

"Will that be all my lady?" Mrs Molesley's soft voice interrupted Cora's musing.

"Yes, thank you Mrs Molesley." Cora nodded. "I hope Mr Molesley isn't missing you too much. I feel rather badly about taking you from him."

"He is keeping busy, my lady." Mrs Molesley assured. "He signed up to teach courses through the summer for some of the children who need extra attention. And he is writing."

Cora turned in her chair, gripping its back eagerly. "A novel?"

Mrs Molesley pinked as she nodded. "Yes, my lady. A fiction about a servant working to become a teacher."

Cora chortled. "Sounds semi-autobiographical."

The sound of the small passage door opening interrupted Mrs Molesley's laughter and both women glanced over to see Robert entering the room. He paused, a bemused grin on his face. Mrs Molesley quietly bade them good evening, the keys hanging from the chatelaine around her waist tinkling as she departed.

Cora exhaled heavily as she faced her vanity once again, applying cream to her neck. The pinstripe pattern of Robert's nightshirt reflected in the table's mirror as he took his place behind her. She watched as his hands came up from his sides and rested on her shoulders. His fingers touched her lightly, massaging slow circles into her flesh and Cora closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. Some of the tension left her body, the sudden loosening in her muscles making her feel weak, shaky.

"I hope you aren't too hurt by Mary's comments."

Cora opened her eyes a fraction, enough to find Robert's own looking at her through the mirror. His features dipped down in concern, his knuckles grazed her cheek. Cora couldn't help the upturn of her lips at his tenderness, just as her insides tightened with the remembrance of Mary's words. Her oldest daughter's attitude towards her had always been tinged with either frost or fire, a fact of their relationship she had become accustomed to. Still, when she found herself unprepared for Mary's acrimony, her words could be especially hard to take.

"I'm fine." Cora lied, wanting nothing more than to crawl in their bed and put the evening behind her. Sybbie's upcoming presentation and ball in the coming days needed to be her focus, rather than Mary's foul temperament.

Robert held her eyes for a moment, his arched brows telling her he knew better. Cora thought he would speak more of it, but he leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of her head instead. Humming her approval, Cora stood and let Robert ease her house coat off of her before padding over to their respective sides of the four poster bed.

Cora slid under the bed clothes, curling on her side and facing Robert as he extinguished the light on his bedside table. He nestled into the mattress, letting his head fall so that he faced her. He opened up his arms, making room for her and Cora molded herself against him, resting her head in the crease where his arm met his shoulder.

"Mary is lashing out because she saw George speaking with me before dinner, and I think she senses something is off with him." Cora murmured into the silk of Robert's night shirt.

"Is there something to be concerned over?" Robert questioned.

Cora paused, thinking over the words they had exchanged. None of them brought her any closer to understanding his sadness, but at least she had coaxed him into speaking with her. In the short time he had been back George had retreated from the family. The flurry of preparations had allowed him to blend into the background but still she had noticed. And so too had Mary, apparently.

"I cannot quite say. He is awfully burdened by something." Cora offered.

"Well, it still doesn't give Mary the right to act as she did." Robert grumbled.

"No," Cora replied, rubbing her hand over his chest. "But I can relate to some feelings of jealousy when your child finds a better report with its grandparent than yourself."

They laid together in the quiet, Cora thinking of her mother in law, her formidable presence that still surrounded them. She was sure Robert's own thoughts were touching upon Violet's memory.

"Mary has always had a temperament more compatible with Mama's." Robert said at last. "But she does love you."

Cora did not reply, unable to find the words that would easily explain to Robert just what she felt. In some part of her, she knew Mary loved her, the kind of love one has out of a sense of duty. It was right to love one's mother and so Mary did, but most times Cora suspected that was the only motivation behind her stingy affection. And it was a hard thing to live with when she dwelt on it for too long, that her daughter did not particularly like her, that her love was an obligation.

Studying the pearlescent button of Robert's nightshirt, she traced its ridge. Cora trained her thoughts on George before the constriction in her throat could become any worse. Forty-eight years of marriage hadn't cured her of her discomfort in crying in front of Robert and so she stopped the tears before they could begin. Burrowing down, Cora pressed her eyes shut and tried to push away any lingering, unpleasant thoughts. Luckily, her exhausted body fell into sleep quickly, her breath slowed and deepened and the whirl of her mind spun slowly to a stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you, thank you for all of your kind words and support. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying reading this story. If you haven't read any of my other work, then you might not know that I primarily write Cobert and am a huge Cobert shipper, so writing outside of their characters is a stretch for me. Hopefully I am representing the other DA characters well. For those of you who are Cobert shippers, I promise there will be lots of them through out the story. This chapter is a bit on the shorter side due to logistics. It just felt right to have this be separate from the action of the next chapter, which promises to be much longer!**

June 1938

The noise of the room wasn't so much a commotion as it was a civilized, constant thrum. The low consonants of conversation, the cricket-like rub of dresses against tuxedos, the fairy tinkling of crystal against teeth, Sybbie was hyper-aware of it all. She strained to hear Barrow announce the names of guests entering Grantham House's salon. _The 5th Baron of Sutton, The Baroness of Sutton and The Honourable Georgina Fenton. Viscountess Tamworth and Lady Anne Thompson._

All of the sounds mingled together, making it difficult to hear any one thing. The faces of their guests were unrecognizable and though they should mean something, though it felt entirely false to be warmly welcoming these people she had never met, Sybbie did as was expected. Her grandfather certainly knew each person, offering his hand to the men, nodding politely to the women. Robert handed them off seamlessly to her grandmother, the two of them performing a kind of dance, one that they had done a million times over. Cora had a soft word for each guest, a personal inquiry or remembrance and Sybbie was left in wonder at her memory for such trivial pieces of other people's histories.

Sybbie hid her hands by her side, burying them in the diaphanous folds of her dress, clasping and then releasing the gauzy fabric. Cora turned in her direction, eyes sparkling as she introduced her. Without taking her eyes off of their guests, Cora reached down and gently covered Sybbie's hand with her own, prying her fingers away from their busy work. Behind her, Sybbie could feel Tom's steady presence, his calm quieting some of her nervousness.

"Oh it's Mrs Kennedy!" Cora exclaimed lowly as she leaned slightly back into Sybbie's space.

Sybbie strained her neck around Cora to see the ambassador and his wife enter. She had met their daughter Kathleen* at court the previous week. Sybbie recalled their brief conversation, the way the other girl seemed to bounce with enthusiasm, the feather in her hair bobbing as she spoke. Her peculiar accent touched the vague childhood memories Sybbie had of Boston.

Catching the younger Kennedy's eyes as she walked in behind her parents, Sybbie offered her a warm smile. She held back the laughter scratching in her throat as Kathleen launched on tiptoes and waved. Rose Kennedy's eyes widened at her daughter, her mouth twisting sternly as she spoke to Kathleen. Averting her eyes away from the scolding her friend was obviously receiving, Sybbie's breath stopped in her lungs, her sight filled with the image of a young man entering close behind Kathleen. A tall young man she had never seen before, his cool eyes surveyed the room, casually roaming the faces of those within it. He lifted his arm, ran his hand through his thick chestnut hair, and straightened the lapels of his jacket. Not in an anxious spasm of movement but calmly, as though he already knew they were perfectly in place and wanted everyone else to know it too. As he advanced down the line, Sybbie's stomach jumped and she forced herself to take a breath.

"Hiyya Sybbie!" Kathleen's clear voice interrupted her gawking and Sybbie jerked her head back to her friend.

"Hello Kathleen, I'm so glad you could come," Sybbie said.

"It's Kick, remember! And I wouldn't miss it for the world!" Kathleen gushed, squeezing Sybbie's arm. "This is my brother, Joe."

Kathleen waved her hand in the direction of the mystery boy and Sybbie fought for words. Now that she was inches away, she couldn't help but stare, her eyes feeling too big in her face. His grin was lopsided and Sybbie had to remind herself to lift her gaze from the plump lips framing it. Looking back to Kathleen, the other girl wagged her eyebrows up and down before casting a sideways glance at her brother.

"This is my other brother Jack." Kathleen added.

"Hello," Sybbie greeted quietly, smiling briefly at the gangly boy bringing up the rear, before flicking her head back to the other brother.

"Nice to meet you, Lady Sybbie." Joe Kennedy said.

"Oh I'm not a lady," Sybbie hurried to correct him.

Jack snorted as Joe stepped back and assessed her, his face a mask to his thoughts. "Good to know," he said before approaching Tom and extending his hand.

The air in her lungs quivered, her face burned and if she hadn't been rooted to her spot by the leaden feeling in her legs she would have run up the stairs. Sybbie pushed breath through her nostrils, trying to force away the prickling of tears that aggravated her nose, but the pain only dislodged itself, lowering to her throat.

Sybbie searched in the direction the Kennedys had ventured off in. Joe and Kathleen stood by the entrance to the sitting room, cocktails in hand. Kathleen tilted close to her brother and Joe leaned down to hear whatever it was she whispered. He kept his eyes turned toward the room with an indifference that was intriguing more than it was off putting. Jack, who had been speaking with his parents wandered over to his siblings. Sybbie found she was unable to look away, drawn to the trio, wanting to be a part of their tightly knit group.

The rest of the guests passed by her in a blur, all of them seeming dim in comparison to the Kennedys.

* * *

Marigold clasped her elbows behind her back, grinning to herself as she watched the dancing couples twirl around the dance floor. She had been allowed one dance with George. Granny had won the argument, insisting it wouldn't hurt even as Donk and Aunt Mary pointed out her age. But she had been practicing for months with Granny Pelham and the idea she could be denied a chance to show off how good she had become was almost too much to consider.

In a swirl of skirts, Sybbie was whisked by her in the arms of one of George's Eton chums and Marigold followed them around the ballroom. Her cousin looked especially pretty this night, her thick locks curled into cascades that grazed her bare shoulders, the flush a party always seemed to create staining her cheeks.

She was happy for Sybbie, it all seemed to be a success, and she couldn't help but imagine herself in her cousin's shoes. Even being as far away as Brancaster, Marigold was aware of the fussing that had gone into this evening. There were many times in the last few months when she had passed her mother sitting on the divan, telephone pressed to her ear, listening to Granny's plans take shape for Sybbie's season. A warmth settled on her skin. It would be rather nice, all of that flurry over herself. Marigold pictured seamstress visits and turning from side to side as Mama and Granny fawned over the placement of lace and bows.

Her hand rose to her shoulders, her finger languidly twisting the thin strands of her hair. Perhaps for just one night, she would be as beautiful as Sybbie, but then Sybbie looked so much like Granny. And she, she looked like someone she had never met. Marigold dropped her hair quickly, dropping her head and staring at her feet. Her mind clamped down, as it usually did whenever it wandered to thoughts of who her real parents might be.

"Are you enjoying yourself, darling?" The nasally inflections of her mother's voice startled Marigold from her musings and she donned a weak smile. Her Aunt Rosamund came up from behind, touched Marigold's arm and took a sip of her champagne.

"It's all very lovely." Marigold replied forcing some gaiety back into her words.

"Well, isn't it funny?" Edith exclaimed suddenly and Marigold faced her, tilting her head. "I was just thinking that for an American born in the midwest, your granny probably has the most experience presenting girls at court than any other woman in England!"

"You should get Cora to write a column for your magazine," Rosamund suggested around her chortling.

"I might just take your suggestion," Edith retorted. "If only to see how needled Mary would be by it!"

Marigold laughed, the motion brushing away any lingering sadness. "But what could we call it?"

Edith pressed her lips in thought, glancing from Marigold to Rosamund. " _An American Countess and Thirty Years of Court Presentations."_

"Marvelous!" Rosamund exclaimed.

Edith and Rosamund kept speaking after their laughter died, their conversation dropping an octave while Marigold's attention returned to the dancing couples. Sybbie danced with the American boy she had been making eyes at all evening and George was paired off with some snaggle-toothed Lady something or other that Marigold had never seen before. Wincing as the awkward girl stepped on George's foot, she looked beyond them and caught sight of her grandparents. They moved to the music, their feet nimble as they navigated the crowd. Robert's hand was splayed out on Cora's back, looking like a bear paw against her lissome figure. Their faces shined with contentment as they spoke together, words meant for no other ears but one another's.

Marigold smiled to herself and played with the ribbon cinched around the waist of her dress. She caught sight of her father speaking with Uncle Henry at the far corner of the ballroom. She sighed, the air making her feel lighter, her feet wishing to move, to dance and tap along the wooden floor.

"Aunt Mary will never let Granny help with Roberta's presentation. But perhaps she could help with mine." Marigold said happily, looking back at her mother and Aunt Rosamund.

The idea of it, one enormous ball just for her had Marigold almost giddy. The hooded glance that Edith and Rosamund exchanged at her words, however, dampened some of her jolly mood and left her feeling chilled. There was some unspoken response in that look, something that hinted at disappointment. It had to do with her, Marigold knew, like so many hastily whispered words she had almost walked in on throughout her life. Words that broke off immediately when she entered a room. There were secrets between them all, secrets she could not know. The not knowing was getting harder and harder to live with.

* * *

 _*Kathleen Kennedy was the younger sister of JFK and did get presented at court in 1938. Her father, Joe Kennedy had just become the ambassador a few months prior and the whole Kennedy family reportedly fascinated Londoners. First with their sheer size (nine children) and then by the older Kennedy siblings endearing irreverence for protocol and aristocracy. Kathleen especially was a real stand out and was considered one of the most exciting debutants that year. The Kennedy sibs (mostly Joe Jr and Kathleen) will actually feature a lot in this story since they would have been Sybbie and George's contemporaries, they spent a lot of the war in England (Kathleen especially became part of their circle because she was dating and then married Billy Cavendish, heir to the Duke of Devonshire) and I've always pictured a grown Sybbie sharing a lot of traits with Kathleen_


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: I should have included this in the previous chapter since so many of you commented on it. In regards to Marigold being presented, the research I have done about court presentations leads me to believe that Edith and Bertie would have decided NOT to present her, though there is no concrete answer. Basically, in the Victorian and Edwardian period you submitted the name of the person to be presented to the Lord Chamberlain and that person's character underwent careful scrutiny. Her Majesty only received those who "wore the white flower of a blameless life". I did not come across anything that suggested the rules loosened up during the years between the two World Wars. (discounting late 50's period, right before Queen Elizabeth stopped presentations in 1958. Apparently then middle class people were paying big money to aristocratic ladies to present them. Princess Margaret was quoted as saying that soon 'every tart in London' would have been presented)**_

 _ **Obviously, Marigold has no control over the circumstances surrounding her conception, but it's my belief that the story Edith and Bertie would have told society about Marigold's origins would have been the story Edith and Mr Drewe initially came up with. I think the Crawleys and Pelhams would not have wanted to subject her to any such background check. So they would opt out of presenting her. At least, that's how it's going to be in my story :)**_

 _ **Also, someone else pointed out that it would actually be a 'moot point' since the season is called off between the years 1940-1945. And they are right, it is. But Marigold, in the last chapter, is in 1938 and she, Rosamund and Edith are blissfully unaware of what is in the future. Incidentally, there is no fast and hard rule as to how old a debutante has to be to be presented. Girls as young as twelve have been before the queen and king and married only a number of years later. It was entirely up to the parents to decide when they felt their daughter was mature enough to enter the marriage market. As more and more young women were allowed to seek higher education, there was of course a delay in their want to find a husband.**_

 _ **And now, on with the chapter and thank you all so much for your interesting (and flattering!) reviews and discussions.**_

 _July 1938_

Cora stood in front of the oblong mirror, hand on hip and eyes straining critically. Her dissatisfaction only deepened the longer she stayed there. No amount of turning or twisting or tugging or straightening altered the reflection frowning back at her; the frown that further accentuated the crevasse-like lines framing her thinning lips. The number turned the emptiness in her stomach as it tumbled over and over in her mind. _68.*_ How could it be? She didn't feel her age, her joints and muscles did not scream its truth as she moved about doing the things she had always done. So the actuality of it taunting her in the mirror whenever she chanced by one was always as shocking as a blow to the head.

Her mother used to tell her that she gazed too often in them as a girl. Mirrors. _The glass will not always be so kind,_ Martha would say. Cora would shrug off her words and continue to admire. She was never vain, but seeing the girl, and then the woman, staring back at her was always strangely reassuring. She could be too caught up in the dreams inside her head sometimes, to see her own self was a happy anchor to reality.

She hardly looked in mirrors anymore, much more content to look at the faces of her growing grandchildren, her still achingly handsome husband.

With one last withering appraisal Cora sighed and pivoted away to be met by Robert's squinted eyes searching her own. The discontent she had just been feeling was still etched in the grooves on her forehead, the muscles straining the skin of her face and Cora forced her features to relax. Robert cocked his head.

"Why were you just looking at yourself like that?" Robert questioned.

"Like what?" Cora asked innocently, busying herself with putting on her gloves.

"As though the most detestable vision had burned itself into your retinas." Robert answered, taking her coat off of the chair and coming behind her. Cora swiftly placed one arm in its sleeve, followed by the other. "You've no idea how beautiful you are. You _never_ have."

Cora snorted. "I well remember how I _use_ to look."

"As do I." Robert replied, placing a light kiss on her cheek before folding her arm into the crook of his elbow. "And believe me when I say you've never looked lovelier."

"That's all well and fine," Cora retorted as she let him lead her out of their bedroom and to the stairs. "But would the young Robert Crawley think the same?"

Before Robert was able to stutter his reply, they had reached the bottom of the stairs and walked right into the swarm of their family. Cora leaned into Sybbie's open arms, letting her eager granddaughter draw her close into a tight embrace.

"Happy birthday, Granny!" Sybbie exclaimed. Cora patted her cheek and next moved to Tom, extending her face as he kissed her.

"I want a kiss too! Granny! Granny!" Cora bent down as her youngest grandchild launched himself into her arms.

"Careful, Edward! You're getting much too big for such games." Henry told his eight year old son.

"Oh it's fine, I'm not brittle yet," Cora said, smoothing down Edward's unruly hair.

"I wish you were staying for dinner with us! How can you have a birthday without cake?" Roberta pouted, crossing her arms.

"Perhaps tomorrow we can have Mrs Whitney make a special one," Robert said, an attempt at appeasing his granddaughter and steering Cora closer to the front door.

When they passed by Mary, the two women stilled, eyeing each other for a moment. Something had shifted in their dealings with one another since Mary's hurtful words before Sybbie's presentation. Neither brought it up again, but it was there, large and unweilding and placed between them. More than ever, Cora felt her oldest daughter's heart lay far beyond her own and any effort she made to span the distance was met with indifference. It pained her, an acute, sharp wound. She had thought in this time of their lives they would have become friends once again.

Mary's gaze was trained to some spot over Cora's shoulder. "Happy birthday, Mama."

"Thank you, darling," Cora murmured as Mary's cheek pressed to her own stiffly, quickly. Cora looked down to her feet as they pulled away from each other and Robert placed his hand on the small of her back.

"We must go. We will be late." Robert said, nudging Cora toward the door.

The car sat waiting for them outside Grantham House and Robert followed Cora to her side, holding her clutch as she folded into the backseat. She allowed herself one more melancholy moment, letting her whole body droop with the trembling breath she let out before shaking the sadness off of her. She smiled at Robert as he entered the seat next to her. He grinned widely at her as the chauffer shut his door.

"It's awfully nice having a driver again!" Robert chuckled, plucking her hand from the leather cushion and cradling it on his lap.

"Don't get used to it," Cora admonished lightly.

"Can a man not enjoy being able to sit near his wife while being motored around London?" Robert asked, bringing her hand up and kissing the knuckles.

"You are being very affectionate. I suspect you are hoping I'll forget our conversation earlier." Cora observed, giggling at his look of mock injury.

"Are you questioning my motives?" Robert sat back, letting go of her hand and putting his own on his chest.

Cora raised her eyebrows and adjusted the skirt of her dress. "No...only pointing out how you conveniently did not answer."

"It is because the whole business is silly," Robert said, a serious undertone accenting his words. He turned to her, his right leg lifting slightly onto the seat as he did. "A young Robert Crawley would think you beautiful in any stage of your life." Cora scoffed, shaking her head. Robert took hold of the point of her chin and coaxed her face around.

"It is true," Robert said, softer now. "How could he not? How could I not?" Robert leaned closer, his lips near her ear. "Everything about you is beautiful."

"You are going to make me cry," Cora whispered, sniffing away the building ache between her eyes.

"Well, we cannot have that," Robert declared, sitting back into the seat. "There will be no crying on your birthday!"

Robert took her hand once again and held it securely against him. Cora studied his profile, her lungs swelling, filling up the hollow of her chest. She loved him so dearly. Having felt her eyes upon him he looked back at her and grinned. Cora dropped her head and kissed his shoulder before straightening.

Clearing her throat, Cora asked, "So where are you whisking me off to?"

Robert laughed, "You are as bad as a child! It is a surprise."

"Oh please! Can't you just say?" Cora begged.

"Oh very well," Robert sighed. "We shall be there soon anyway. A little place on Regent street. You may have heard of it. Veeraswamy*."

Cora gasped. "What?! No! Really?!"

Robert's laughter filled the car's cabin. "You are like a child! Yes, really!"

Cora squeezed Robert's arm into an embrace. "Oh darling, how exciting!"

"I'm glad you're happy, Cora. I'm so very glad." Robert responded.

* * *

 _August, 1938_

Sybbie turned a half circle in the middle of her room, fingertip tapping against her lip as she studied the suitcases laid out before her. She picked up a pile of carefully folded clothes, edges of the fine tissue paper placed between each blouse tickling her palm. Carefully, she placed them in the case. After they were fitted in, she inspected the neat little tower they made. An artist's collage of colors and patterns flashed under her critical eye and Sybbie wondered if they were smart enough for a London university. Though she pretended not to care about such things, she would be mortified to appear too country.

Inexplicably, Sybbie's mind conjured Joe Jr and she wondered, would he be considered more of a townsmen in America? He certainly wasn't sporting, not in the sense she had grown up to define it. He didn't shoot or ride, though all the Kennedy's had exposed her to a barbaric show of sportsmanship they called 'touch football'. A silly grin lifted the apple of her cheeks as Sybbie thought of it, the afternoon she spent on the embassy lawn watching the Kennedy siblings in motion.

"What are you mooning about?"

Absorbed in her thoughts, George's voice cut through Sybbie's reverie sharply, sending her heart lurching into her throat. He whooped as she gave out a little shriek and she would have let her immediate irritation fester if the sight of his gleeful expression didn't squash all notions of anger. George had been too gloomy most of the summer, his usual sunny disposition lost to some internal worry he would not speak of. Sybbie would offer herself up as the fool if it meant she would be treated to one of his increasingly rare smiles.

She could still pretend, however, to be miffed at his intrusion.

Sybbie smoothed the front of her skirt, adjusting the belt at her waist with an unconvincing casualness before flipping her hand in the air. " I was NOT mooning."

George nodded his head vigorously. "You were. Quite fully."

Sybbie huffed, a sound meant to stop any further discussion, and rolled her eyes at her cousin.

George sat at the edge of Sybbie's bed, slouching into the fluff of the bed covers, following her movements as she made herself busy. Sybbie could feel the strength of his gaze as she resumed her packing. It was an unsettling scrutiny. She and George had grown up as close as brother and sister. He had always been her most trusted confidante but these thoughts she had, these desires, were far too intimate, too close to the raw fibers of her emotions to give them voice, even to George. And so her hands fluttered over her vanity, plucking bottles off of the glass top to place in her cases, hoping he wouldn't pester.

"I still cannot believe you are leaving." George said before the silence could stretch out too long.

Sybbie placed her hands on her hips. "It isn't as though I'm leaving you. You left ages ago for school!"

George shrugged. "I know, but I always knew you would be here when I came home. Now you won't."

"That isn't true. We may have the same holidays." Sybbie replied.

George shook his head slowly. "I doubt you'll come back regularly, being in London. You'll have had a taste of freedom, you'll become too cosmopolitan."

"I doubt that!" Sybbie laughed.

"The Kennedys will be enough of an enticement, I'm sure." Sybbie's laughter stuck in her throat and she looked up to see George staring at her, his pale blue eyes waiting for a reaction to decipher. Sybbie stood straighter, unclenching her hands.

"I don't know what you mean." Sybbie replied finally, tossing her hair off of her shoulder.

"Please, Syb. You don't have to pretend. Not with me." George said, touching her wrist.

"You're one to talk." Sybbie grumbled.

Ignoring her words, George continued. "What do you hope will come of it? He's American. He'll be going back soon."

"I'd like you to know he's staying to study under Harold Laski*." George lifted an eyebrow and Sybbie felt a heat rise in her cheeks that she tried to ignore. "And we are part American."

"But we don't live there." George said.

"What does that matter?" Sybbie asked with annoyance.

George opened his mouth, poised to keep arguing but then pressed his lips together, a small nod of his head and the quick rise of his body off the bed signaling he was finished. Sybbie stared at the chemise in her hands, pretending to pick at a loose thread. She felt George close, saw his outline out of the periphery of her eye.

"Can I interest you to go riding later? My last before leaving?" George asked.

Sybbie looked up and touched George's arm. "Of course!" George smiled before turning away, leaving her room as quietly as he had come in.

Once she was by herself, Sybbie fell back on her bed. She stared above her, the simple light covering surrounded by the ornately carved ceiling rose, thinking. Joe Jr's face came to mind, the lopsided carelessness of his grin, a startling contrast to his intense eyes. George's words dissipated, her embarrassment faded and her face hurt from the pull of her smile. London. She was going to London!

* * *

Edith sat, drumming her fingers against her knees and leaning forward as Bertie tuned the dial of the radio. The large console came alive, the grainy static scratching through the speakers giving way to legible voices the more Bertie adjusted the knobs.

"That should do it," Bertie declared, clapping his knees and standing up, joining Edith on the divan.

Edith smiled appreciatively in his direction and picked up the cup of tea abandoned on the table nearest her. She blew at the amber liquid, sending up tendrils of steam that temporarily warmed the tip of her nose. Straining to hear the tinny syllables of the reporters over the crackling that threatened to garble their words, an inner turbulence rattled her nerves. Bertie was feeling it too, she could tell. Looking at the taut pull of his face, his usually placid features were harsh and perturbed as he imagined what the news could be.

" _And now they bring her up. The police are coming forward, and the Lord Chamberlain is to be seen down there waiting to greet Mr. Chamberlain. I believe he'll be the first person to meet him as he steps out of the machine. "_ Edith leaned toward the radio, the volume of Richard Dimbleby's voice undulating as the signal wavered. The motor of an aeroplane and the loud cheering of people punctuated the reporter's words, triggering a fresh wave of anxiety. Lottie would be on the tarmac now with the other reporters, scribbling away her impressions of the Prime Minister's descent to the awaiting podium. Glancing at the mantle clock, Edith calculated how long it would take for Lottie to return to the office after Chamberlain's speech. She would meet her there, a special edition of The Sketch in the hands of people by tomorrow morning.

" _I want to thank the British people for what they have done."_ Mr Chamberlain's clipped tone was at once familiar and jarring and Edith pushed away the images carried with it. Of dinner and blood and uncertainty.

" _And next I want to say that the settlement of the Czechoslovakian problem, which has now been achieved, is, in my view, only the prelude to a larger settlement in which all Europe may find peace. This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor, Herr Hitler, and here is the paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine."*_

"Well, that is it then!" Edith exclaimed, her shoulders relaxing from their clenched position under her ears. Chamberlain continued on, speaking of peace and boisterous applause followed his conclusion. Bertie, however, shook his head, eyes clouded.

"No darling. It's appeasement. And appeasement never works in the long run." Bertie exhaled, rubbing his face irritably. " Why would Hitler stop now? First Austria and now part of Czechoslovakia. Europe is all but bowing down to this devil."

Edith lifted his hands. "But what were they to do? War?!"

Bertie twisted the dial of the radio, silencing the still cheering crowd. He turned to Edith and she sat back in her seat, her stomach flipping at the grey look of his face. "It will come to it. Eventually. How much of our souls will be sold in the meantime?"

 _*I know the accepted school of thought is that Cora was born in 1868. That is what was put forth as canon (although I think some early press packs had her birth earlier?). But I'm not a canon purist. I don't think Julian was a canon purist either, since he often played fast and loose with dates and backstories to fulfill his immediate needs. In my opinion, Cora's dialogue with Bricker in the fifth season, and she and Robert's date of marriage being pushed back to 1890 from the original 1889, leads me to believe she was born later too. She tells Bricker that she no sooner left the school room then she was entering the ballrooms of London. If that were the case, and she married in 1890, then her season would have had to be in 1889. If she was born in 1868, she would have been 21...not exactly right out of the school room, actually down right close to the bloom being gone from the rose for that time. However, if she were born in 1870, her season in 1889 would have spanned the end of her eighteenth year, beginning of her nineteenth, and that would be more in tune with the season five narrative._

 _*Veeraswamy is a restaurant on Regent street, opened in 1926 by the son of an English general and an Indian princess. It is the oldest Indian restaurant in London and was (and still is I think) a hotspot for the rich and famous, who were drawn to its opulent interiors and great cuisine. Past patrons include Charlie Chaplan, Ghandi, and Marlon Brando._

 _*While his father was ambassador, Joe Jr studied under Harold Laski at the London School of Economics. Laski was Britain's most influential spokesman for Socialism in the years between the wars._

 _*This is transcript from the reporting of Neville Chamberlain's landing at Heston Airport and his subsequent speech to the British people about his meeting with Hitler and the birth of the Munich Agreement_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 **AN: Sorry it has been so long since I last updated! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. Even if it's just a few words (or some of you who have written even more, bless you!) it really is such a morale boost! I've decided to have a little bit of a time jump in this chapter. I always planned to do the narrative this way, because I really wanted a chance to explore where the Crawley's were before the war and not just jump right into it. But I think the time has come to get things started. So here we go!**

 _September 1939_

Behind Sybbie, the murmured sounds of her grandparents speaking quietly to each other carried over the words George said as he matched her quick stride. They had been silent during breakfast at Grantham House, a silence made more noticeable by Cora's pensive fidgeting. It was a rare treat to have Granny join them for the morning meal, but her presence, and the constant, senseless movements of her silverware, had begun to nudge at the worry already building in Sybbie's gut. The heavy-browed eyes of her grandfather as he periodically gazed around the table had not helped either. It had been a relief to part ways with them at the door, her grandparents disappearing into the back of one car as she slid in beside her father in another.

Crossing St Margaret Street, Sybbie blinked and craned her neck forward. The features of the woman who had caught her attention were hidden behind the dip of her hat's brim as she looked in the opposite direction, but the man striding quickly beside her was unmistakeable.

"I'm going ahead," Sybbie informed George. Before he could reply she turned to the rest of her family.

"Kick is up there. I'll walk in with them." Robert stared with confusion but Cora smiled distractedly at her and Sybbie placed her hand on the top of her hat to keep it from flying away.

Doubling her steps, Sybbie wove carefully between the people beginning to clog the public entrance of Parliament. She reached out, grazing Kathleen's bare elbow. The young woman's head swiveled back, her face brightening at Sybbie's presence.

"Sybbie!" Joe Jr stepped aside and Sybbie smiled shyly at him, placing herself between the siblings. Kick looped their arms together. "Where's your family?"

"Donk will be going through the House of Lords. Granny and Papa and the rest are just behind." Sybbie replied, lowering her voice as they entered the central lobby.

The buzz of voices that had hovered over their heads while they walked with the rest of the crowd abruptly stopped once the mass of people entered Parliament's halls. She paused, alongside Kick, the two girls looking about them in quiet awe. Like her friend, it was Sybbie's first time being inside the palatial structure that sat on the edge of the Thames. She stared at the statues carved into the arches around the windows, she lingered on the intricate mosaics spread out over each passageway. The space was overwhelming in its decoration and her breath stuck to her ribs as she widened her eyes, trying to take it all in.

"It's quite intimidating. The first time you stand here," the soft caress of her grandmother's voice released the air she held in her lungs and Sybbie nodded at her. She pictured Cora entering the lobby for the first time, barely older than she was now. Foreign and shy, a young lord's even younger wife. Sybbie wondered if her grandmother had felt the heavy fear of not belonging or the shivering excitement of her new life. Focusing on the easy smile on her grandmother's face, it was hard to imagine her afraid of anything and Sybbie stood straighter, walking the length of the tiled floor alongside Cora and Kick, waiting for the throng to make it's way up the narrow stairs to the public gallery.

Her father and Uncle Henry were already standing by the row of green benches they had chosen, Aunt Mary sitting stiffly, clutching her purse on her lap. Aunt Edith glanced behind her and smiled at their approach, a smile that did not reach her eyes and did not linger long. George and Marigold sat shoulder to shoulder, their mouths moving in conversation that Sybbie could not hear.

Sybbie stepped aside, letting Cora carefully slip down the aisle before following close behind. She could see Kick and her brothers as they found their parents a few seats away. Tom settled in beside her once she had taken her place. Her father took her hand and squeezed it and suddenly she was holding back tears. The faces of the people filling the gallery seemed to reflect the storm of feelings churning in her belly. When she leaned forward to peer over the railing she easily caught sight of Robert. Her grandfather sat amongst his peers, engaged in talk, his head slightly bowed and brow drawing further down the slope of his nose. Sybbie held tight to Tom's hand, watching Robert pause in his conversation and glance up, searching the upper gallery. His pinched features smoothed when he found what he was looking for and Sybbie felt her grandmother shift beside her.

A hush fell over the people in the room when Mr Chamberlain entered and Sybbie's attention narrowed on the podium he now occupied, his face grave and grey. She watched his lips form words, his hands grip and release the small desk his speech rested upon. But nothing really seemed to make sense. Not the way his eyes refused to blink, not the flutter of sounds in the room, the fragile gasps or exhalations.

Only one thing stood out. War. War. England was at war with Germany.

* * *

George stepped through the arched doorway and out onto the massive terrace running the length of Cliveden*, searching the goupings of people already drinking on the back lawn. His own drink undulated with the sway of his gate, used more as a prop, something to switch from one hand to the other, than a thirst quencher. Beyond the stone wall that confined guests to the terrace, the still green lawn rolled lazily down until it spilled over into the tops of the great trees separating the grounds from the Thames. A touring boat slowly made its way down the river. With the golden and amber leaves twitching in the light breeze, it looked like any late autumn day in England.

Gladly, George saw that the sentiment was not reflected in the faces of his friends, however much they tried to laugh at one another and pretend nothing had changed. Drinks and food flowed from Lady Astor's kitchen staff but in between the perfectly decorated canapes and the sloshing of liquor, all anyone could talk of was the war. It vibrated overhead like the constant droning of an aeroplane. It filled George with a strange comfort, to be speaking about the reality they found themselves in, instead of the lofty, vague and stilting sentiments found around the Grantham dinner table. As the weeks went by, putting Mr Chamberlain's declaration further into the past, George grew increasingly frustrated by his family's blatant denial of the facts. War was upon them.

"Well old man, what do you think of this? A garden party while Hitler is banging down the door."

George turned swiftly to see Billy Cavendish take a long sip of his drink. He had always looked up to the young marquis at Eton, though Billy was a number of years older. They shared a similar temperament and Billy was more than willing to be a mentor, advising George in a way that felt less oppressive than Robert's earnest lessons.

"Are you going to enlist?" George asked, searching Billy's profile.

They remained in silence, Billy staring out at the party goers and George waiting. Eventually, Billy nodded before finishing the rest of his drink.

"Coldstream Guards. Mama hasn't left her room since I told them last night."

George sighed, kicking at a pebble near his foot. "I haven't found the right moment to speak about it to my family."

Billy turned in his direction. "You can't mean to join up, George."

George startled, swiftly glancing up to see the seriousness with which Billy spoke. "But of course! Why wouldn't I?"

Billy chuckled, "You are only eighteen, George. Really, leave this fight to us."

George took a step back. "I'm quite offended. 'Leave this fight to us'? Aren't I just as British as you? And you aren't much older."

"George," Billy said, the mirth leaving his features. "You are still very young, no matter what you think. And if something should happen to me, I have a brother. Who in your family will be the next Earl of Grantham if you die in battle?"

George scoffed, shrugging from the hand Billy patted against his shoulder. "Maintaining the family line is not a compelling argument against fighting Nazis."

Billy raised his eyebrows. "It should be. Afterall, are we not fighting to preserve our way of life, of keeping safe what we hold dear?"

"I don't hold the earldom dear." George interjected.

"And what of Downton?" Billy asked.

George shook his head. "It's a drafty old house with more empty rooms than full now. It's a drain on our resources and a burden that's turned too many heads gray. It should have been sold long ago. What family such as ours has a family seat in the country and a house in London now? Your's sold Devonshire House long ago."

"So speaking from experience, you should be very grateful." Billy replied.

George sighed. "But I am not. I don't want any of it."

"So you're going to join up in hopes that what? You never have to fulfill your destiny?"

"I don't want to die, Billy. I just want a chance to live a life outside of Downton." George said, coughing as Sybbie and Kick ran up to join them. Billy closed his lips around any further debate and they both greeted the girls with forced smiles.

"You can't fool us. We saw those sour puss faces from miles away!" Kick scolded lightly.

"What were you talking about?" Sybbie asked George quietly.

"Can't a man have a conversation with his mate without having to relay it verbatim to you?" George asked.

Sybbie looked at George. "Of course, but who is this man we speak of?"

Kick snorted as Billy tried to hold his laughter in. He leaned down to her and whispered something into her ear before they both excused themselves, walking closely together to the end of the terrace.

"I think he fancies her." George observed.

"She definitely fancies him!" Sybbie replied.

"Oh," George said smirking. "Do you know something?"

Sybbie shrugged her shoulders but her face said otherwise. "I'll never tell. But it would be quite wonderful!"

"It would crush the dreams of every deb this season if the American landed the future Duke of Devonshire." George retorted.

"Oh who cares about those boring beasts anyway!" Sybbie said. "I think it's grand!"

"I bet his parents don't." George said and lifted up his glass. "Shall we get one more drink before I have to escort you back to Whinfrey Hall?"

* * *

George eased the heavy oak door open, wincing as the hinges screeched his arrival. It was past dinner time, far later than he had meant to come home, but then he hadn't planned the journey he'd taken after bringing Sybbie back to her dormitory. His talk with Billy, followed by Sybbie's tipsy admonishments on their drive back to her university, her prescient warnings not to do anything foolish, only worked to spur him on. Steering the car through the streets of London in the opposite direction of Grantham House, George had found himself standing in front of a plainly decorated door, a small placard tacked into the distressed wood. The words _RAF Recruitment Station_ were carved in a delicate cursive, the lettering more suggestive of a feminine tearoom than an extension of the war department.

It had all happened rather quickly, the scratching of his pen against the fibers of paper as he signed his life to king and country. He had passed his physical without incidence and before he could second guess what he had just done, an officer only slightly older than himself was pressing a uniform into his hands, gold flight wings laying on top the neatly folded stack of khakis. He was to report to Leconfield Command Base* in North Yorkshire in a fortnight.

Slipping through the narrow opening of the doorway, George held the items in his hand close to his chest and pushed the door closed behind him. He gingerly put one foot and then the other in front of him, hoping that Granny's meeting at London's Royal Hospital had been long and that she had gone straight to bed.

"I wondered when you would be coming back. Sybbie called ages ago." Cora's soft words floated through the darkness of the entrance hall and George froze.

The click of a switch pierced the quiet and light filled the shadowed corners. George saw Cora standing near the stairs, her usually expressive features subdued as she waited for him to speak. George shuffled his feet, subtly trying to rearrange the crossing of his arms to fully cover what they contained but the movement only served to catch Cora's attention and her previously calm exterior crumpled as she rushed over.

"George!" He had never heard her voice like that as she cried his name and he couldn't help but take a step back, trying to distance himself from the pain it held. With a strength he didn't know she had, Cora pried his arms apart, revealing the uniform he had tried to conceal.

"Dear God," Cora whispered. "George, what have you done?"

Before he could answer, before he could voice any of the comforting words his brain was grappling to produce Cora gripped his shoulders, pulling him fiercely into her embrace. With his arms pinned between them, still cradling the garments he'd been given, George didn't dare move, letting his grandmother hold him. But when he felt her tremble against him, the grief she tried to choke down still audible, he let go of what he carried and wrapped his arms around her too.

"Hush, Granny," George instructed gently. "It will be alright. I will be alright."

*Cliveden was the home of Lady Nancy Astor (an American) and Waldorf Astor, 2nd Viscount Astor. Many famous people of the time flocked to the Astor's magnificent home about an hour outside of London. 'The Cliveden Set' became a term used to describe the guests that frequented the Astor's home. Nancy Astor was especially fond of Kathleen Kennedy and saw her as a younger version of herself.

* Leconfield was opened in 1936 and on the night of 3 September 1939, the first night of the war, ten Whitley bombers from Leconfield became the first British aircraft to penetrate German airspace, dropping propaganda leaflets over Germany. In October 1939 it was taken over by the RAF Fighter Command and was used as a place for many other fighter command groups as a rest and re-group spot during the Battle of Britain.


End file.
